Page 80 of Art of Sin

He laughs.

Razored panic slices my skin, digs between my ribs, and pierces my lungs. My vision tunnels. Whitens.

“¿Cómo está,mi muñequita?” How is my little doll? “I have a bone to pick with you.”

He’s dropped all pretense. Deeper accent, sharper consonants. Some indefinable shift in cadence that is uniquely him. My mind races to understand the impossible—how he could have mimicked Marco so perfectly. My research years ago suggested that the merging of two “alters” was extremely rare.

“What have you done to Marco?” The question is as insane as it is irrepressible.

Julep hums in glee. “That little cabrón is locked up tight. Thanks to you, Deirdre, I’m a changed man. After what you did to me, I wound up in a fucking institution. Got all the therapy I needed. I’m better now. Integrated.” The final word is a hiss.

My ear hurts. Belatedly, I realize my hand is shaking so hard I’ve been hitting myself with the phone.

“What do you want?” I hate the weakness in my voice. The primal fear.

“The same thing I’ve always wanted.”

I grab the knife from the bag. Curling my fingers around the handle, I remind myself I knew this day could come. That my split-second decision to spare Marco’s life could—and likely would—cost me everything down the road.

Because it had been Marco I’d helped outside, let lean on me as we made our way to the secluded garden shed at the edge of the property. Marco I knocked unconscious with the butt of a gun and locked inside for the authorities to deal with.

Not this monster.

“I made you,” Julep continues, harsh and deep and with absolute conviction. “If not for me, you’d be rotting in a shallow grave somewhere, a senseless victim of the streets. If not for my money, that you stole from me, you’d be the same stupid trailer trash I found fourteen years ago. You. Belong. To. Me.”

Silence falls, the only sound his heavy breathing. My fingers ache from gripping the knife, my palm stinging where my nails have pierced flesh.

“But I’m not without mercy,” he continues, marginally calmer. “I know this is a lot to process. You may have three days, mi muñequita. Say your goodbyes. If you don’t come home, I’ll flip a coin to decide who dies first: sweet little Nate or the Ginger you’re fucking.”

Click.

“Wait—”

The word recoils, choking me with sick comprehension.

Come home.

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